


Here Comes the Change

by grandtheftaurell



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, but like its still summer, coffee shop guy!joe, im like new at this so its prob gonna suck real bad, like... pete is shady asfuck, not summer of like, smoker!mikey, this ones for u jo, woops my first fic !!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandtheftaurell/pseuds/grandtheftaurell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A summer of a different kind. One where the air is heavier. One where the slow burning of a half-smoked cigarette is a promise for change. </p>
<p>Mikey is a high school student with an unhealthy obsession with smoking. Pete is a high school student and self-proclaimed Observer of the Universe with a friendly disposition and a dire need of company. The windows are sun-stained and they are young. Caffeine is the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Comes the Change

**Author's Note:**

> ok so like this is going to SUCK major ASS brace urself

The first time he came, dab smack in the middle of spring, he hung his cigarette in between his fingers as he scanned the otherwise empty alleyway. It was as if the vacant concrete space was made of wind as the harsh, cool air blew against him, making the detritus swirl, the damp trash skittering far too close to his newly-washed jeans. Exhaling smoke, Mikey found it unfortunate that this dingy place was the only area on-campus that wasn’t cramped with people.

With an absent desire to do something productive with the twenty remaining minutes of lunch time, he flipped out his phone. His brow creased and, deciding against using it, he bit the inside of his cheek and shoved it back into his pocket almost immediately. Mikey wasn’t in the most conversational mood; why change that now? Besides, he didn’t have anyone to contact, excluding Gerard and Ray. 

A boy about his age sauntered pass him, hands shaking, breathing rapid. As he leaned against one of the walls, the newly entered boy shoved a cigarette between his lips. He didn’t light it, and Mikey didn’t notice. All he knew was that the shattering of solitude was his cue to leave. He threw his half-smoked cigarette into a shallow puddle and turned his back.

 

The second time, Mikey was panting. The heat split his back like a ruthless whiplash and slick sweat drenched his shirt, making it cling on to him, unpleasantly moist. It was one of those days you can’t help but despise. Behind tufts of white cloud, the sky, vibrant and static and blue, peeks at you like a pervert in a washroom. The sun slips between the cracks and mocks you with its warm touch. With every flick of moisture from his tongue onto chapped lips, with every gold-rayed clear morning, Mikey knew the truth about the weather and the crunching of grass beneath his feet. 

Summer was approaching.

Upon entering the abandoned alleyway, his hands, tangled knots of bone, muscle and skin, scratched at his jean pockets in frantic search for a cigarette. He found a crumpled one wedged inside a back pocket and proceeded to light it. The nicotine made its way into his mouth as smoothly as usual, his fingers darted to take the cigaratte from the warmth of his mouth, only to bring it back. He became a monotonous beat of tobaco and inhales and exhales and pufts of smoke suspended in mid-day air. 

Mikey’s eyes flickered to the left, as if upon protocol, only to be met by another’s. 

A boy was watching him.

Caught in a treacherous sun beam, his eyes were the same shade as the single-malt whiskey Mikey’s grandmother used to drink. His black hair was spiked on the front, like a crest of mountains chisled out of charcoal, and a scattering of words marked in black ink stained his arms.

He didn’t smile or greet Mikey. He simply watched.

Hands propped under his chin, mouth agape, face stretched and moulded into an expression Mikey doesn’t know the word for. Mikey wanted to leave, but he would rather stay here and endure the torture of being observed by a stranger who might be sizing him up, or tearing him down, or planning a suprise attack and pick his pockets instead of having to stare out the sun-stained window during math.

 

He comes to the alley to smoke everyday for two weeks, without fail.  
He is still unchanged in his cycle of nicotine and smoke sizzling his nostrils and his lungs. Every time, the boy is there; sometimes he smokes, on other occassions he writes on his arms. Mostly he stares.  
For two weeks, the world is as it should be.

 

It’s their last Tuesday before the summer holidays, and Mikey’s predictions from two weeks back were proven to be correct - summer was upon them. The sun pounded him with more intensity and smoking mainly felt like he was grilling his insides as much as the heat was tentatively burning his skin. He stalked into the alley after a particularly tedious English class, lighting a cigarette, twisting it in his fingers, watching the smoke unfurl into the humid air in wispy curls of lung cancer. He wonders if this is how the boy must feel when he’s staring into space; blank, but somewhat accomplished. To watch the unraveling of movement and the currents of people, the ascending of smoke from the reddened tip of a mediocre cigarette. To observe the world but not take part in the conversations and not uttering a single world to signal your existence. 

The boy.

Mikey looks around, only to be greeted by the sight of him grasping his hands together, brows drawn, staring intently. Mikey feels a sort of relief, despite being completely unacquainted with him. If he wasn’t there, it would be like a missing piece of a nearly-complete jigsaw puzzle, he figured. Almost complete, but itchingly not. 

Minutes pass and Mikey looks at the sunlight, performing its flickering dance on his skin. He observes the clouds, slipping away, slipping away... He allows his eyes to shutter close, allows his sentience to bask in the fluttering warmth of a summer caress. 

A jolt rushes through his body, and he is falling. 

A pair of sturdy arms catch him.

“Woah!” A voice exclaims. “Nearly dropped off, there.”

His eyes open. A face is looking down at him, split into an evangelic grin. The boy spoke.

“Looks like you’re a bit drowsy.” He says, and extends his arm, holds out his hand. A human token of introduction. “I’m Pete, by the way.”

Mikey does not grip his hand, and Pete gets the hint because it is already stuffed into the pocket of a clearly oversized gray sweatshirt. He looks up at Mikey, eyes alight and face still unrealistically stretched into a smile.

“So, I think a course of action must be taken in order to cure your exhaustion.” He clapped his hands together. “I know a good coffee shop down the block run by one of my friends.”

Blinking, the cogs in Mikey’s tired brain begin to spin. He squints, as though if he could see Pete clearer, he would know the reason as to why a complete stranger was suggesting him to go to a ‘good coffee shop down the block’, as though this was completely casual.

“It all clicks. You’re a chainsmoker who holds no respect towards authority or punctuality, I’m a near-friendless professional class-skipper with four zits and twice as much cruddy ex-boyfriends. I don’t think a cup of coffee would permanently damage any of us, Mikeyway.”

“Huh?” 

“Don’t catch on easy, do you?” Pete remarked, brow raised again. His eyes narrowed quizically, and Mikey could see his tongue protrude from the interior of his cheek. “Come with me.”


End file.
